Cortège.
The
Mercedes in Poulton square was bullish
it
and its twin, grey, sleek, moving
through
the pedestrian way, to the church
no
doubt. Their drivers knew the rules.
I
could have followed their passengers,
slipped
into a pew, out of the way, listened
to
how it ends: a small life unpicking,
from
memory to eulogy and back
while
flesh, now flame, turns into memento,
bureaucracy
to genealogy,
triumphs,
tragedies nailed to the tree
with
more or less honesty.
But
I did not, just detoured round the cars,
feeling
sunlight on my back, while I could.
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